The Royal Family (131 page)

His uninvited guest, the FBI man, sat down in the chair once occupied by Irene during that ill-fated chicken dinner so long ago now when John had advised him to find another girlfriend and Irene had remained so sad and silent. Tyler could scarcely prevent his face from splitting open with rage, to see another person sitting in her chair. It seemed like desecration to think of Irene in front of this intruder, so he tried to think about something else. Into his mind came an image of the genital-less child on the family sculptural column of the Pacific Stock Exchange. The hypocrisy of that rendering charged him with a salutary Canaanite bloodlust; he longed to sink his teeth into the FBI man’s throat.

They gazed out the window at the fog for a while, and then the FBI man said: May I ask you something?

Shoot, chuckled Tyler. Or is that the wrong thing to say to a G-man?

What do you honestly think of Dan Smooth?

I honestly think that he has sacrificed himself and others for something beyond human comprehension. You can put that in your case report.

Let’s keep this on the level, the FBI man said. You want to worship snakes or hug a tree, you can do that on your own time. I don’t have a problem with that. This is a free country. But come down to earth for a minute, Henry. Let’s talk about Dan Smooth. First of all, anything to do with kids will get to me. I just love kids.

So does Dan Smooth bugger little kids? Is that what you’re asking me?

Well, does he, Henry?

I wish you the best of luck in your investigation.

Just answer me this. Do you like him? Do you approve of him?

Not particularly. There. I answered you honestly.

This guy is in trouble, Henry. You know that. Felonies up the kazebo.

Is that dorsal or ventral to the blazzazza?

All you have to do is cooperate.

Said the spider to the fly. Hey, I hear the Bureau is so behind the times today, still back in the 1950s and 1960s that they use three-by-five index cards. Is that just a rumor?

You’re a private detective, Henry, said the FBI man. In a very loose sense, you could be said to be part of this justice system of ours. Now, Henry, this is a case about
justice.
This is good against evil, Henry. Which side do you stand on?

As long as we have professionals on both sides, drawled Tyler, this great justice system of ours will be in good shape.

Tyler refused to cooperate with the FBI partly because after that first interrogation flanked by the posters which warned
PARENTING IS DIFFICULT
the memory of Dan Smooth’s face sat heavy on his chest. No matter what Smooth had done, he would not betray him. Perhaps Smooth’s semicontrovertible arguments that as it was he had already betrayed Irene, the Queen, his mother
and
John swayed his unconsciousness’s deliberations in the direction of silence, which after all defined the ethos of the entire royal family.

Biting his lip, he telephoned Detective Hernandez again.

Yo, buddy, what’s up? Any luck with that broad you were checking out?

Still looking, said Tyler. I had something else I wanted to ask you about. You remember that Dan Smooth guy you turned me onto that time?

Oh,
hey,
Danny Smooth! Do I remember? Do frogs catch flies? Hoo, boy, is that old lech in a heap of trouble! Kind of sorry to see him go down in a way, because he did help us out a few times, but them’s the breaks. You can’t be messin’ around with twelve-year-old nookie.

Well, Mike, I was wondering if there’s anything we can do for the guy. You know, he—

Henry, my very good chum, listen up. Dan Smooth
knew
what he was doing and he
deserves
whatever he’s going to get. He’s seen it coming for years. I know, because he told me. You know what I think? A guy can get away with things and keep getting away with things for so long, and then one day some insignificant little episode wraps around his ankle, and then he can’t get away with a damned thing more, because he’s
done, kaput.
Know what I’m saying? Dan Smooth is at that stage, Henry, and there is
nothing
that you or I or anybody can do except maybe grease the drop he’s gonna fall through after the hangman puts the noose around his goddamn stinkin’ child molestin’ neck . . .

What sort of proof do you want? he gently asked the telephone.

What do you mean? the woman said. Just
proof.

In a hit-and-run homicide, is a fingerprint on a car enough to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? I mean, for a probation revocation hearing, yes, but . . .

Mr. Tyler, I really don’t understand.

All right. Do you want eight-by-ten glossies of the two of them having intercourse, or will it be enough for me to call you up and tell you that I saw them going into such-and-such a motel together for one hour in the middle of the afternoon?

I—

Do you want to know or don’t you want to know? I’m not trying to bully you, ma’am. This is what I say to all my clients.

I . . . I guess if you tell me you saw them together in a hotel, that would—I mean, I . . .

I understand. What you never want to do in a situation like this is to go halfway. Better either to resolve to trust your husband absolutely, or else you gotta go for the nitty-gritty. It’s so hard to know anything, I mean
really
know anything. There’s always
another explanation if you want to believe it enough. Let’s say you see the two of them humping under the covers; maybe you can convince yourself he’s helping her find her car keys—

Mr. Tyler, do you really have to be so graphic?

Sure I do. Lemme give you another example. Let’s say you’re in love with somebody who maybe doesn’t even exist and you—and you—oh, forget it.

Are you okay? the woman whispered. I thought this was about my problem but somehow it’s starting to feel like it’s about you, I mean, I . . .

Because
you can’t ever know anything.
What if the woman you love doesn’t even have a social security number or fingerprints? Then how can you believe anything? So maybe you want those eight-by-ten glossies so that years from now if you ever regret divorcing him and your mind starts trying to be kind you can take ’em out of the drawer and see how
ugly
they look together and then you’ll believe, yeah, this was
real;
this
happened.

I see.

What’s your religion?

I’m a Catholic.

Then you do see. Because don’t all those crosses and relics and holy pictures help you believe? Don’t they make it all real?

I feel like we’re kind of going on a tangent here, Mr. Tyler.

All right. Well, let me just say one more thing. The reason that Jesus worked miracles was
to provide material proof
that what He was saying was true. If you feel bad when you get those photos, just remember that proof is a miracle. It’s a spiritual thing. Because it’s so goddamned hard to get proof of anything, and even with proof I sometimes . . .

Mr. Tyler?

Yeah?

Is there anything I can do to help you?

I’m sorry. I know I was going off on tangents like you said. Chalk it up to professional enthusiasm. Tell you what. I feel embarrassed now. How about if I follow your husband and the other woman for nothing? I mean, I . . .

Lifting his head, he could just see above the wooden railing the rival lecterns whose black nameplates read respectively
DEFENDANT
and
PLAINTIFF
.

Henry Tyler, said the voice of judgment.

Here.

V. T. & R. Credit, Incorporated, said judgment.

Represented,
came the hearty, remorseless voice of his enemy, whom he’d never met until now. He and his enemy were sitting alone together in the front row, inches from that forehead-high railing whose sign commanded
NO GUM, FOOD OR DRINKS IN COURT
. His enemy was a pale, somewhat flabby young man in a blue blazer. Perceiving Tyler’s inspection, his enemy rewarded him with a sincere and indeed rather sweet smile whose only odious quality, if any, would have been its self-confidence. Tyler could not help liking him. His enemy’s colleagues, the agents who’d haunted and infested Tyler’s telephone for months now, who’d nagged, then warned, then threatened, and finally, in a stunning abrogation of their personalized ill will, offered to negotiate for pennies on the dollar, just so they could close Tyler’s case, these ghosts had never meant
any more to him than entities which must be kept off; they shamed him and he dreaded them, for which cause he’d been rude to them, faithful to his cardinal axiom that one’s only choice lies between belligerence and cravenness. Now all that lay buried deeper than Irene’s bones. He loved his enemy. He longed to turn the other cheek.

We do have stipulated judgment forms that you will be required to fill out, said the official voice.

The previous case had finished now. A businessman had come in rolling an immense flat tire, Exhibit T. A cop had held the courtroom door open as he came. The door closed; the cop stood scratching his thigh beneath the holster. Now the tire was gone; likewise the businessman with his anger, his shame, his sweaty armpits and tire-grimed hands. —Judgment suspended, ruled the court.

And Tyler himself, he hung suspended above his own future, just as he had throughout that instant longer and more barren than infinity when he had watched his twitching fingers begin, in utter disobedience to his will, to strain toward Irene’s thigh for the very first time; just as he had when, learning from his mother that Irene was dead, he’d resolved to be faithful to her forever; just as he had when the tall man had led him down that dark and dripping tunnel to the Queen and he had allowed himself to believe in her, giving up his gun and kneeling to receive her saliva; just as he had when she’d offered him the false Irene to love and he’d accepted; just as he had when he’d known that he could not love the false Irene anymore; just as he had when he’d accepted the Mark of Cain as his own emblem of damnation and integrity forever; just as he had when the Queen had offered him her soul, her magic, her heart and her cunt; just as he had when he’d realized that she was doomed; just as he had when she’d left this earth and he’d searched ever more unavailingly; just as he had when Dan Smooth had turned to him in need; just as he had when Irene’s ghost rushed back into his arms to love and hate and smother him; just as he had when, understanding that the Queen, Sunflower and Sapphire were all holy by virtue of being degraded unto the very death, he’d resolved likewise to go in the highest, lowest direction he could, determined at the eleventh hour to make something of himself, to become “authentic” or honest or purified or more like one of those three prostitutes, no matter what it cost him; and now the next thing was about to occur. He knew that it was a trivial thing, but still it was the next thing.

He did not feel present anywhere anymore. Did this constitute a failure spiritual or otherwise? Sapphire had been present only in the most unearthly way. Sunflower had died sleepy and confused. Only the Queen had continued ever aware.

He did not understand what he should do now. He needed his Queen—oh, how he needed her! If only he’d thought to ask her more questions, or—

Summoned, Tyler and his creditor approached their respective lecterns. Tyler felt shabby. Erect, his creditor proved more resplendent yet from the waist down—wool slacks, shiny shoes.
He
required no Mark!

And suddenly I get served with these papers, Tyler explained, hardly listening to himself. So I actually got so upset that I just stopped payment. You know how it is, your honor.

Knees apart, his creditor nodded sympathetically, gazing into Tyler’s eyes. Tyler admired him more and more.

So, uh, the way I see it, your collections people violated the law, Tyler concluded. For an instant he felt awed by his own righteousness, but then his creditor’s shining eyes made him sleepy, submissive, ready to settle on any terms.

His new friend said: Mr. Tyler, we can either request a continuance to find out what they promised on the phone, or we can resolve this matter right now . . .

Tyler discovered a sign which read:
DO NOT ARGUE, QUESTION OR INTERRUPT EACH OTHER
. When his turn came round again, he tried to respect the sign, and said: Look, I don’t want to be a jerk or anything. Just tell me what you think we should do.

If you want to compromise with me, replied his friend in a tone of the utmost kindness. I can certainly take a down payment. Meanwhile, what I’m gonna do is request a continuance. But my question is, we called you several times and—

Well, I don’t know about the several times, Tyler lied, hanging his head.

Mr. Tyler, you’re not to interrupt.

Sorry, Your Honor, I just . . .

Yeah, Mr. Tyler, I understand, his friend told him sympathetically. But all you had to do was call us. V. T. & R. is always just a phone call away. Anyway, that’s history. Here’s the balance you owe, and I’m gonna . . .